


But They Ain't Doing It Right

by twilightstargazer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (...mostly), (a minuscule amount), (like... a fair amount), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Smut, mostly because Bellamy is bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7902928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstargazer/pseuds/twilightstargazer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So,” he begins, running a hand through his hair. It’s a lost cause trying to work it back into some semblance of order. “What is this?”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>He doesn’t meet her eye when he says, “Once is a mistake, twice is a pattern,” too busy picking at a loose thread in his hem.</p><p>“Wanna go three times and just make it a habit?” she jokes weakly, and his head snaps back up, eyes boring into hers. She flushes under the intensity of his gaze.</p><p>“Actually,” he begins slowly, “That doesn’t sound that bad.”</p><p> </p><p>or, the friends with benefits au that got away from me</p>
            </blockquote>





	But They Ain't Doing It Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caramelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/gifts).



> The first of my giveaway fics! Mel wanted (and this is verbatim people):  
> like bellarke already knew each other and there's so much SEXUAL TENSION and shit and then she's like okay well i did the thing now i can forget him and get him outta my system bUT SHE FINDS HIM AT THE FARMER’S MARKET AND SHE'S JUST NOPE OKAY GUESS NOT OUTTA MY SYSTEM AND SHE'S JUST LIKE WAIT WHAT YOU MAKE CHAIRS???? FROM SCRATCH?????? WTF WHY DID I NOT KNOW THIS YOU'RE ALWAYS SO ANNOYING AND GRUMPY AND SHIT AND holy shit this chair is beautiful and i kinda want to buy it and holy shit your face is also kind of beautiful now that i've stopped yelling at you and i kinda want to ..../.. SIT ON IT
> 
> title from 'A.D.I.D.A.S' by little mix

Clarke’s not really the one night stand kind of girl, no matter how much she wishes otherwise.

She appreciates them in a roundabout sort of manner of course, and is always there to cheer on (or tease as the case may be) her friends when they leave with someone on their arm, but she herself has never taken a particular shine to it.

And it’s not for lack of trying either. She tried with Finn, but that ended in disaster when Raven showed up. She tried with Lexa, and that positively imploded. She tried loads of times, but was never able to be that one and done kind of girl.

Clarke liked relationships. Sue her.

So what she’s doing here with Bellamy? Well, she’ll have no one but herself to blame when this inevitably explodes too.

 

* * *

 

 

This is how it starts:

A night out with friends celebrating Monty’s promotion at the Dropship. Too little inhibitions, too many couples surrounding her and way too much alcohol in her.

Don’t get her wrong, Clarke loves her friends, loves that they found someone to share their lives with, but she’s also a teensy bit resentful that she doesn’t have that anymore. She misses holding hands and stealing kisses, sleeping curled around another body only to wake up to pillow creased skin and sleepy eyes.

It’s how she finds herself leaning against Bellamy of all people, heaving a sigh while she steals another swig of his beer.

“You owe me a drink,” he grumbles, even as he slouches lower so that she doesn’t end up hurting her neck.

She sighs again, eyes flickering shut. “Do you ever miss it?” she asks, words slurring together just a bit.

“Miss what?”

“A relationship,” she says.

She feels him stiffen for a moment before he glances down at her and slowly pries the bottle from her fingertips. “I think you’ve had enough to drink.” He waves the bartender over.

“I’m not drunk,” she protests, finally sitting up straight just so she can throw a glare at him.

“Right,” he nods, cracking the seal open on a bottle of water before sliding it over to her. “Drink this.”

She continues to glare at him, but downs half of it anyway, knowing that he’ll just hem and haw until she does. “Happy?” she asks, pursing her lips.

His returning smile is dry and sharp. “Ecstatic.”

Silence washes over them slowly and Clarke finds herself leaning against him once more as she people watches. There’s a groups of their friends on the dancefloor, all smiles and laughter as they fail to move to the beat. Meanwhile, Octavia and Lincoln have disappeared and she sees Raven and Roan arguing over darts. Or at least it looks like arguing to unknowing watchers. Clarke knows _exactly_ what Raven’s grin means.

“You didn’t answer my question from before,” she says after a while. His arm moved behind her, resting against her hip and holding her to him. He finished off her water a while ago.

Bellamy shrugs. “Not really. I mean, the only difference between friendship and a relationship is sex, right?”

She sputters. “‘The only difference?’ There’s more to a relationship than just that, Bellamy!” she says, jabbing him in the thigh with her pointer finger. “There’s trust and respect and-”

“-and pretty much everything I look for in friendships,” he cuts her off smoothly. “Face it Griffin, the only difference between a good friendship and a good relationship is the presence of sex. And I can have sex without a relationship.”

If she were a bit more sober and coherent she would have dropped it then and there, but, as it is, Clarke’s stubbornness is only enhanced by alcohol. “Relationship sex is different though,” she refutes.

He scoffs, twisting around to look at her better. The movement hooks her legs over his thigh, and she doesn’t bother to move them, too busy frowning at him. Besides, she’s comfortable. “Oh please. There isn’t any difference between fucking a one night stand and a significant other. I want to feel good and I want to make them feel good. That’s all there is too it. This isn’t rocket science, Clarke.”

Squinting suspiciously at him, she asks, “So you’re telling me that you wouldn’t do anything different in a relationship sex wise?”

He thinks about it for a moment before shaking his head. “Nope, nothing. Would you?”

Clarke hesitates for amount before sniffing in what he likes to call her prissy princess voice, “I’ve never had a one night stand.”

Bellamy chokes on nothing and he whips his head around to stare at her. “What?”

She feels herself flush under his scrutiny. “I’m bad at them. Everytime I try it always ends up blowing up in my face.”

“How do you mess up executing a one a night stand?” he says, still staring at her. A tinge of awe colours his voice. “You find someone you want to fuck, you hit on them, and then if they’re interested, you take them home.” He pauses, looking sidelong at her with a smirk, “Or to the handicapped stall of the bathroom. Now, I know that that might be a novel concept for you-”

“I said I never had a one night stand, I never said I was a prude,” she huffs petulantly, crossing her arms. “I just- I spend too much time getting to know them, I guess.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I’m a nice person. Now, I know that that might be a novel concept for you,” she mimics and he jabs her in the ribs, grinning.

“Cute,” he says, flat.

“I try.”

The silence that falls over them is companionable, and she finds herself humming along to the song that’s playing over the speakers. He orders them another round of drinks- shots this time, just the two apiece- and she lifts an eyebrow.

He gives her a heartbreaking grin. “Come on, Princess, loosen up a bit,” he says, squeezing her hip for good measure. “Have some fun.”

“I’m fun,” she says, grabbing a slice of lime, “You just don’t know it because we’re not friends.” She downs the shot easily, barely even wincing as it burns the back of her throat, and then smoothly bites down on the wedge.

He’s watching her with dark eyes. “Hmm,” he says thoughtfully before following suit. There’s a few grains of salt sticking to the corner of his mouth, and she feels the sudden urge to lick them off. “We should probably fix that.”

She passes the next shot over to him and they clink their glasses together. “We should,” she agrees, and they throw it back together.

She’s pretty sure that Bellamy didn’t mean to fix their lack of friendship by hooking up in the bathrooms of all places, but, well. Things happen.

(And, okay, maybe she set the ball rolling when she oh so coyly suggested that maybe a friend needs to show her how to have a one night stand successfully. There was a spark of interest in his eyes that becomes more and more noticeable as the night wore on, and she wanted to see where it would lead.)

“Just a one time thing,” she pants into his neck, fingers twisting in his hair. “Just to get it out of our systems.”

“For purely academic reasons,” he agrees, dragging his teeth across her jaw. “It’s my job as a teacher to uh- teach you things.”

Normally she would laugh at how his words have failed him, but she’s too busy being devoured by the inferno. “Exactly,” she says, and it comes out hitched on a moan as he finally pulls her underwear aside, letting his fingers trail up her folds.

In one swift movement he picks her up, pinning her against the door of the stall, and his grip is hard enough to leave bruises on the skin of her thighs. Clarke just lets her head fall back against the door, causing it to rattle.

There’s very little finesse and foreplay because she feels like just one touch would be enough to set her off like a rocket ever since they fumbled the door closed. She helps him slide on a condom and doesn’t even bother to try and swallow the moan that is ripped out of her throat as he presses down on the small of her back, pulling her closer as he slides in, easy. Bellamy’s hand spasms against her skin as he grunts, fingers digging into the flesh of her ass.

He keeps his mouth low, running it just by her ear, all sorts of filthy things spilling out of it and she just groans, helpless as he pushes her higher and higher towards that peak. Their rhythm slips, just for a second as he grabs hold of her leg, hitching it higher on his waist so that when he thrusts back in, Clarke swears she sees stars, his name falling from her lips like a prayer.

It only takes half a dozen more thrusts like that to drive her over the edge, her nails digging into his shoulders so hard that she’s sure she draws blood. Bellamy for his part just swears, tugging her head back so he can mouth across her collarbone as his hips stutter, and he soon follows, burying his low groan against the back of her neck.

They spend maybe a minute or so slumped boneless against each other, her head resting on his shoulder as she pets up his spine, feeling him slowly soften inside her. He gives her a chaste kiss before pulling out.

“Good?” he asks, still breathing heavily as he ties the condom.

“I guess you know what you’re doing,” she concedes, squeaking when he playfully slaps her on the ass.

“Tis the art of a one night stand,” he tells her and she can’t help the giggle that bubbles out as a result.

They don’t speak again as they clean up, and Bellamy leaves before she does, squeezing her shoulder while she tries to fix her smudged make up in the mirror.

 

* * *

 

 

Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin’s relationship is… complicated.

They’re not particularly close, even though they’re in the same close knit groups of friends, and they argue about fuckall without the slightest bit of provocation, but at the same time she has him as her emergency contact and she knows that she’s the first person he’ll call in a crisis.

And now they’ve added sex into the mix.

After they part ways in the bathroom, they spend the rest of the night with their friends, acting as though he wasn’t telling her how much he’d like to taste her while she begged for his cock a bit over an hour ago, and Clarke is _normal_ for the rest of the night. Lighter even, dancing with Raven and Octavia, even getting Miller to crack a smile at her overly enthusiastic lip sync along to _Hit Me Baby One More Time._

It hits her the next morning though, when she wakes up wonderfully sore but with dread curling in her stomach.

She thinks about her bad rep with these things, thinks about how both she and Bellamy have the same best friends, the same _family_ at this point, and now she just might have thrown it all away in some stupid drunken mistake.

The anxiousness weighs down on her like a cloud for the next few days, until she sees him again, this time at Octavia’s for dinner.

Her doubts are all cleared up there though, as ten minutes after she walked in, they’re already bickering over history channel.

(“It’s steeped in the entertainment industry, Clarke! It’s no longer educational when every other show involves some sort of inaccurate and overly dramatic retelling!”

“It’s television! It’s supposed to be fun! Stop making this out to be more than it actually is!”

“This is important!”

“People are _dying_ , Bellamy!”)

Still, Clarke makes sure to confront him after dinner, just to make sure that they’re both on the same page.

“So, um, about Saturday night,” she begins, trying and failing to sound casual as she flops down on the couch next to him.

He cracks an eye open and glances over at her. “What about it?”

“I’m just making sure we’re, you know, cool. No awkwardness or anything,” she says, nervously playing with her hands in her lap.

His hand drops atop hers, stilling them, and when she looks up, he’s smiling at her a bit strange. “It’s only awkward if you make it awkward,” he shrugs, “You said you wanted it to be one and done. Just a taste of what an actually one night stand is supposed to be.”

“I know, I know,” she says hurriedly, “But now, looking at things from another perspective it was kind of dumb because we’re friends. Or, have the same friends I mean.”

“I see why you’ve never successfully pulled one of these things off,” he says dryly, sitting up so that he no longer has to crane his neck up to look at her. “You overthink everything.”

“I’m just making sure-”

“Yes, we’re good. Relax. Raven and I slept together a few years ago and it hasn’t changed our friendship the slightest,” he tells her.

“That’s because it started your friendship,” she says wryly, “And also because Raven at least has some semblance of chill.”

He grins at her and she slumps back against the couch. “As long as you’re aware of your faults,” he says, and then has to dart out of the way when she swipes at him, shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

She makes sure to hide her grin though, because it turns out that she was worrying for nothing. Of course Bellamy isn’t going to make things weird. He’s one of the most laid back high strung people she knows. They’re fine.

 

* * *

 

 

Things should have been easier after that conversation, and they are, for a little while, but then Clarke starts think about other things.

More specifically, other _Bellamy_ things.

Like the smattering of freckles that dusts his cheekbones, the ones that she wants to trace with her fingers, then charcoal, then her tongue. Or his hair that’s just made for curling her hands in and pulling. Not to mention his mouth which, ever since he said he wanted to taste her, it’s been the highlight of some _very_ vivid dreams lately.

Bellamy has always been attractive to her- all tan skin and hard muscle, topped off with a heartbreaking face- but she’s never really considered it before. It’s just one of those things that’s known; the sky is blue, water is wet, Bellamy is hot.

She noticed the first time they met of course, it was hard not too, but then he spoke and she realised that he was an arrogant, cocky, overprotective dick, and the initial attraction vanished. And then, over the next few years, their social lives become entangled and she never really had the chance to think about him like that again.

Until now.

Because now she’s slept with him. Now she knows that he likes to talk a lot during sex and she’s embarrassingly in to it. Now she knows that he likes it when she pulls on his hair, likes it when she digs her nails into his back.

Now she knows a lot of things, and Clarke knows that people say knowledge is power, but in this case it’s going to lead to her demise.

(But oh, what a sweet demise it might be.)

It still makes hanging out with him hard though, mostly because whenever she looks his way, she can’t help but think about… _certain_ things and she’s more than glad that none of her friends are mind readers because then they’ll probably be scandalised. It’s even worse when he catches her looking, because he flashes her a smirk that makes her feel like they’re both sharing a dirty little secret.

… which is technically true, but Clarke doesn’t have to _like_ it okay?

(Fuck, she likes it.)

Whenever he does that, she immediately goes red, blood rushing to her cheeks and… other parts.

She likes to think that she would no longer be rattled by these things- she’s twenty seven, a doctor, she does her own fucking taxes! She’s a responsible adult who has her life in some semblance of order!- but alas, here she is, sent completely off kilter because of one Bellamy Blake.

‘Fuck Bellamy Blake,’ she thinks, scrubbing a bit too hard at a spot on her mug. And then, because her brain is a traitorous little bastard, _‘Fuck_ Bellamy Blake.’

Yeah, this one and done business really isn’t cutting it for her.

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke likes going to the farmer’s market for two reasons: the first being that it makes her feel like a sophisticated adult who has her life together, and the second being that she and her dad used to go almost every weekend during the summer, just to browse the stands and buy homemade ice cream at the end of it.

So when she has a Saturday off after a relatively easy going shift the day before, she dons a cute sundress and drives over to the one on the other side of town to do just that in hopes that this can remind her of the woman she once was before the whole Bellamy drama a month ago.

It’s nice out and she spends more time basking in the morning sun than actually shopping. She does buy a few things though, mostly some fruits and a vegetable or two just so that she can show it to Octavia to get her to stop worry about her diet. Clarke firmly stands by her statement that granola bars and juice are perfectly valid way to start the day.

She ends up wandering a bit deeper, bypassing the produce and ending up at the craft section when she sees _him_.

Him as in Bellamy fucking Blake, laughing and chatting away with some guys while he sands the arm of a chair.

She has to blink several times to make sure that she’s not seeing things.

He looks different than he usually does when they hang out, a flannel shirt over a threadbare tee that’s rolled up to his elbows, worn jeans with holes at the knees, fucking _glasses_ , clunky frames just sitting there on his nose… it’s all a really good look for him and Clarke’s certain she spent almost a full minute just gaping at him.

The sign above the stall says handmade furniture items and her eyes flit over him once more, this time focusing on the chair for a beat, because _fuck_. She stares at him, needing to take in everything to make sure that yes, this is in fact Bellamy Blake, perpetual thorn in her side and smarmy bastard, and no, her mind is not playing tricks on her. An inordinate amount of time is spent watching his forearms flex, taking in his sweat soaked curls sticking to his temples, and she’s certain the temperature just went up with thirty degrees.

She should not be so turned on by this but _oh well._

It’s one thing to see Bellamy once in a while, out in a social setting with friends looking entirely put together, but it’s quite another to see him here, practically the opposite of all that, sweaty and lighthearted.

She doesn’t realise when she made the conscious decision to go over to the booth, but before she realises it, she’s walking over there, calling out a cheery greeting and cause him to whip around so fast he might’ve given himself whiplash.

At least Bellamy is just as thrown by her presence as she is. He has to physically shake his head before actually replying to her. “Clarke. What are you doing here?”

“Buying a vegetable,” she says, “Your sister threatened to replace all of nutrient bars with kale if I don’t ‘start eating like an adult.’”

“Sounds like her,” he says, fond, “I taught her well.”

“Taught her to be a menace is more like it,” she grumbles under his breath, and he grins, bracing himself on the counter that separates them. It draws attention back to his fucking forearms which is entirely unfair.

“Nah, that’s all O,” he chuckles, and Clarke joins in a second later, albeit her laughter sounds slightly shaky.

“So,” she says, fidgeting with the strap of her canvas tote, “You… made a chair.” It just slips out, but she’s still more than a little bit awestruck. He made a wooden chair. By hand. And it looks damn good, like something you might find in a vintage inspired kitchen.

Who the fuck does that?

Bellamy fucking Blake, that’s who, and Clarke is sure that the fates have conspired this just to get a good laugh.

“Yeah. I have a lot of spare time on my hands now that school’s out and it’s pretty relaxing,” he shrugs, pushing his fringe out of his eyes. “Been doing it with these guys for a while and I finally completed one by myself. Don’t know if anyone would actually sit on it, though.” He nudges it with the toe of his shoe, huffing out a laugh while rubbing the back of his neck, uncharacteristically shy.

“I’d definitely sit on you,” she chirps and it’s only when his eyes snap towards her does she realise what she said. Her face goes bright red in a matter of seconds and she only just barely manages to stammer out, “I meant it,” a beat too late for it to be taken as truth and reddens even further. “Um, the chair that is. Not the other thing.”

Clarke Griffin: recognised specialist at Arcadia General, gets tongue tied in the face of attractive men.

She too would be amazed if she wasn’t considering digging a tunnel to Peru and raising llamas for the rest of her life. Maybe then she’ll finally escape the embarrassment.

He’s smirking again, looking like the same cocky bastard who likes to argue about fucking everything when they hang out with their friends during the week. Normally this would turn her off immediately, but for some reason it just seems to fan the flames, and she has to bite back a whimper when he gives her an incredibly blatant once over.

“Are you doing anything later?” he asks, voice seemingly going at least two octaves lower. It goes straight to her core and Clarke really, really hates him at this moment.

Never one to be outdone, she smiles coyly at him, cocking her head to the side. “What’s the correct answer here?” she retorts as she looks up from under her lashes, “Yes, or you?”

His bark of laughter is sharp and bright, causing her cheeks to flush and warmth to curl in her belly. It’s almost like they’re flirting. No scratch that; they _are_ flirting. It’s disconcerting.

“Both works for me,” he says, before biting his lip. It pops out, red and shining and this time she’s fairly certain that an actual whimper escapes. “Actually… are you busy right now?”

She knows that look in his eyes, remembers it very, very well from that night at the bar, not to mention the numerous times it starred in her dreams. “Nope, I’m free. So, so free.”

His smile is downright salacious, and she can feel herself already growing warm under his scrutiny. He breaks his gaze to mutter something to one of the men working the booth with him and then, after he nods, he’s turning back to her, reaching for her hand.

“Come on, it’s not that far,” he tells her, and Clarke doesn’t know what he’s talking about, too preoccupied with her sudden transfiguration into a live wire, electricity crackling under her skin in responses to his touch.

There’s a small building up ahead, with the sign ‘for vendor’s use only’ stuck on to it. It’s mercifully empty when they walk in, and she sighs as the cool air hits her skin. So caught up in everything that she is, Clarke almost stumbles when he suddenly veers right, pulling her into a cramped janitor’s closet.

The door hasn’t even clicked shut as yet before he’s pressing his mouth against hers, hot and demanding, his grip mean on her hips.

“Classy,” she says, though it comes out more breathless than snarky, and he pinches her ass in retaliation.

“Sorry it’s not a five star hotel, Princess,” he shoots back, hands scrambling up the back of her dress, “Where’s the fucking zipper on this thing?”

She laughs, tipping her head back against the wall while he assaults her neck with kisses, and guides his hand over to the side. “Here,” she says, “And you know what I mean; this feels like we’re in high school.”

There’s the telltale ‘schwip’ of the zipper as he drags it down, and soon her dress is pooling at her feet. He pulls back just far enough so she can see the glint of teeth as he grins. “Trust me, this is going to be much better than a high school hook up.”

“Big talk there, Blake,” she gasps, shuddering when he flicks her nipple through her bra. He does it again, just out of spite.

“I’ve missed these,” he sighs into her collarbone, squeezing her breasts in each hand.

“Not me?” she asks, just to be contrary. This she can do. Flirty banter during foreplay is easy. Flirty banter during a normal conversation however touches a whole can of worms she doesn’t even want to think about.

She feels the blunt edge of his teeth drag across her skin. “Maybe a little,” he allows, before cupping her jaw and pulling her lips back to his. “So is this some primal sort of instinct?” he pants against her mouth while she grapples with the hem of his t shirt. “That I show that I’m a fairly competent homemaker and you’re immediately programmed to think suitable mate?”

Clarke refuses to be embarrassed that he picked up on her blatant thirst. “You’re just… really attractive like this,” she huffs, “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.”

It’s for that reason, she presses her thumbs into his hipbones, leaning up to nip at his ear. “Don’t be a dick.”

“You like my dick,” he mumbles against her jaw, trailing kisses down the column of her neck.

She groans, both at the feel of his mouth and the terrible line. “Oh my god, shut up,” she tells him, pulling on his hair and he moans unabashedly against her sternum. “I distinctly recall you saying that this is going to be better than a high school hook up and so far I’m not impressed.”

In one quick move, he drops to his knees, handing skimming up the inside of her thigh to toy with edging of her panties. Clarke has to take several shaky breaths as she looks down at him, and he presses a chaste kiss to the crease where her hip meets her thigh, slowly pulling off her underwear. “Don’t worry, Griffin,” he says, nuzzling against her so that her hips jerk forward. “I’m going to rock your world.”

Her laugh gets superseded by a moan when he pulls a leg over his shoulder, nose bumping against her clit. “Looking forward to it,” she manages to gasp out, trying to pull his head closer to where she needs him.

(It turns out that his mouth is even better than she imagined, turning her legs to mush before he can even properly fuck her, and god, she wants this again.)

“You really are terrible at one night stands,” he says later while they’re cleaning up.

She snorts. “Told you,” she says, fixing her dress to rights. She glances up at him, bottom lip caught between her teeth. His pants hang low on his hips, belt hanging undone, and he’s just pulling on his t shirt. The sight of him almost makes her want to go for another round, and she has to hastily avert her eyes so that she won’t be committed to keeping him in here all day.

“So,” he begins, running a hand through his hair. It’s a lost cause trying to work it back into some semblance of order. “What is this?”

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t meet her eye when he says, “Once is a mistake, twice is a pattern,” too busy picking at a loose thread in his hem.

“Wanna go three times and just make it a habit?” she jokes weakly, and his head snaps back up, eyes boring into hers. She flushes under the intensity of his gaze.

“Actually,” he begins slowly, “That doesn’t sound that bad.”

Clarke blinks, mouth parting slightly before clicking shut, and Bellamy is quick to drop his gaze again, buckling his belt. She thinks about what he’s propositioning, and for some reason it makes her heart speed up.

“You’re right,” she says, and he’s looking at her again, all dark eyes that makes her mouth go dry. “It doesn’t.”

A slow grin unfurls across his face and she can’t help but mirror him. “So I’m guessing this is an offer to just keep on doing this then?” she asks, just to clarify, and he nods. “No strings attached? Just sex?”

He shrugs. “Whatever the hell you want,” he says before glancing down at his watch, “I gotta go back out there, but, um, you have my number.”

“I’ll text you,” she nods, and he gives her a two fingered salute as he skirts around her to get to the door.

No strings attached sex with Bellamy Blake. She could do that.

Right?

 

* * *

 

 

She doesn’t cash in on the whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing she agreed to with Bellamy until almost two weeks after running into him at the farmers’ market. She still sees him around of course, and there are certain times that she just wants to tell everyone to leave them the fuck alone so she can have her way with him, like when he lets his hand trail oh so casually across her shoulders, or when he’s looking at her through half lidded eyes across the dinner table when nobody's watching.

But she intends to hold out. She’s not going to text first. She _refuses_.

 **[Clarke, 6:27pm]:** _wanna COME over ;) ;)_

...She’s just lucky her resolve held up for that long, and when Bellamy knocks on her door, she practically pounces on him, taking him then and there against the door of her apartment.

“Eager are we,” he smirks, smoothing his palms up her sides

“Not the slightest,” she pants out, fumbling to get his pants undone. It’s a boldfaced lie and they both know it, but Bellamy lets it slide, just pushing her underwear aside and slipping one, then two fingers in her so that she keens.

Needless to say it gets the ball rolling from there.

It’s not like they’re fucking all the time- she’s pretty sure that if they spend more than two hours alone together it’s going to end in death- but they do see each other at least once every fortnight, sometimes twice, and it’s always just random hook ups whenever they’re in the mood, or 2a.m. ‘ _u up ;)_ ’ texts when they’re lonely and can’t quite scratch the itch. Clarke quickly learns about the wonder that is phone sex with Bellamy.

There’s no staying over, no talking about anything else, no lingering or hanging out in the aftermath. Their group dynamic doesn’t change- maybe they’re just a bit more tactile and share a couple of inside jokes- but for the most part, it’s just sex, both of them always leaving before the sheets have cooled.

He’s her booty call that’s all.

Her ‘stuck in limbo between casual acquaintances and friends’ booty call.

Clarke’s definitely got her life in order.

 

* * *

 

 

Things stay like that for the entire month of June, and half of July.

Until it shifts, the night of Octavia’s birthday.

Clarke prides herself on being able to handle her liquor, but Monty’s moonshine is another story. No one can handle Monty’s moonshine, no matter how much they try to fool themselves.

She’s been completely swamped with work these past few weeks, barely having the energy to drag herself in the shower much less fool around with him. He called her twice, and both times she fell asleep before he could talk her to orgasm. Thank god he found it funny. Clarke on the other hand was reconsidering her Peru idea from the month before. She already told him that she would stop off on her way home (“To make things up,” she promised when he cornered her in the kitchen earlier to give her a scorching kiss) but she might have gone a little bit overboard with the drinking which throws a serious wrench in their plans.

(In her defence, Clarke didn’t real feel the effects of it until she stood up, immediately taking several steps backwards as the world spins.)

So that’s how she ends up stumbling into Bellamy’s side as he holds up most of her weight, swaying dangerously while she giggles.

His arm drops from her shoulders to her waist, holding her steady while he swears. “Okay, _fuck_ , come on Clarke, just four more blocks to go,” he says, and she whines, burying her nose in his coat.

“But I was supposed to come home with _you_ ,” she sighs dramatically, stumbling along the crack in the sidewalk.

His lips pull up in a wry smile. “Yeah, uh, the only place I’m taking you is to your bed to sleep this off. That’s it.”

Another sigh. “But it’s _so far_ ,” she complains. “My feet don’t work.”

Bellamy swipes a wary hand across his face, making sure to keep the other on her, lest she takes a header. There’s still a good way to go yet until he can drop her home, and now he regrets not calling an uber after volunteering to see her there.

“Alright,” he says, tightening the arm he has around her to get them moving again, “We’re going to my place, but I’m putting you straight to bed, got it?”

She just giggles again, pressing closer to his warmth.

His apartment is just two streets away, thankfully, and while it is a bit of a challenge to get them there, he manages fairly well. The night is cool, but not terribly so, and she stays close the whole time, even as he fumbles to get the door open.

They go straight to the bedroom, where Bellamy seats her on the bed. “Stay here,” he says firmly before disappearing for a moment. When he returns, there are two bottles of water in his hand and a bottle of aspirin. “Drink this,” he tells her after cracking open one of the bottles. He places the other things on his bedside table before returning to her. Clarke doesn’t fight him, downing the entire thing while he pries her shoes off.

“I’m going to get you something to sleep in,” he says, standing up. His knees crack as he does so and she can’t help but laugh.

“This is fine,” she says, flopping backward and stretching out gleefully. She sees him biting back a smile.

He lifts a single sceptical eyebrow. “I don’t think jeans are the most comfortable things to sleep in.”

She looks at him for a moment before shucking them off, awkwardly wriggling on the bed until she’s left in her top and panties. “Happy now?”

His eyes dart down to her bare legs and back up again, almost too quick for her to see. “Ecstatic,” he says, “Now go to sleep. The hangover is going to kill you in the morning.”

“Where are you going?” she asks, frowning as she pushes herself up on her forearms.

Bellamy stops in the doorway. “I was going to sleep on the couch.”

“But this is your bed.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes I know, but it’s kind of occupied by you at the moment.”

“Yeah, but we can _share_ ,” she says a matter of factly, sitting up fully now so that she can grab hold of his arm. “Come on Bellamy.”

He releases a sigh that’s too big for his body. “Fine,” he relents, not sounding happy about it at all. He toes off his trainers while pulling his shirt over his head, and then kicks off his jeans before crawling into bed in just his boxers. “Better?” he huffs, turning off the lamp so that the only light seeping into the room is from the streetlamps below.

She bites back her smile, even though she knows that he probably won’t see it in the limited light anyway. “Yes,” she says succinctly, curling into him like she did on the walk here.

An uneasy silence falls over them, and Bellamy is too stiff, too wound up under her hands, so she pokes him in the rib. “Relax you big baby,” she hisses. He yells out and bats her hands away.

“Shut up. I’m relaxed.”

“No you’re not, and it’s really killing my vibe here,” she tells him, and it has the intended effect, eliciting a short huff of laughter from him.

“Sorry, next time I won’t try to kill your sleep vibe,” he snorts, letting her drag his arm around her waist.

She grins into his neck. “Good,” she yawns, and he pulls her closer, their legs tangling together.

“Go to sleep, Clarke,” he says, even though she’s already fading fast. She feels something brush the top of her head, but she can’t be sure what it is as she falls asleep.

He’s not there when she wakes up the next morning, but he was right. The hangover is brutal.

She groans at the sunshine streaming in through the window and places a pillow over her head as the night comes back to her. She’s aware that she’s at Bellamy’s, but Clarke flushes when she realises that she made him cuddle with her last night.

That was definitely out of casual hook up territory. Like way out of it.

Groaning about that now in addition to the incessant pounding in her head, she throws her feet over the side of bed, choking down two of the aspirin before chasing it with water. She makes a quick detour to the bathroom to rinse off her smudged make up and to swish some mouthwash around to get rid of the morning staleness before venturing out.

Bellamy is standing with his back towards her in the kitchen as he works on breakfast, but glances over his shoulder at her when he hears her come in.

“Hey,” he says with a small smile.

“Hey,” she replies, fidgeting only slightly. “Um, sorry about last night.”

The tips of his ears redden imperceptibly. “It’s fine. How’s the hangover?”

She pulls a face. “Fucking horrible,” she says, her tone just verging on whiney, “I don’t want to see alcohol for the next year.”

He chuckles. “I can imagine,” he says, chopping some green onion on the board in front of him. He glances back over at her. “I’m making breakfast,” he sprinkles it into the dish and then slides it in the oven, “It should help soak up any alcohol that’s left in your system.”

She hums noncommittally, fighting the warmth that’s settled in her stomach.”You know what else could help with a hangover?” she says, sauntering over to him.

He catches on quick enough, placing both hands on her hips and squeezing when she gets close enough. “I think I’ve got a clue,” he says, hand drifting to rub her through the thin material of her underwear.

“Ten points to Bellamy,” she chirps, leaning forward to kiss him. He cradles her jaw, kissing her slow and dirty, keeping in time to his hands down below. “Orgasms are proven to help relieve pain,” she gasps when he pulls away, lifting her on to the countertop. “Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

“Well, if it’s doctor’s orders,” he teases, lowering himself to his knees, and she throws her head back, groaning.

“Fuck Bellamy,” she moans, heels jostling the cupboard doors as she pulls his head closer to where she wants him. He moans against her cunt, fingers digging into her hips when she tugs on his hair, and she would feel smug at being the cause of it, but then he does that _thing_ with his mouth that makes her keen. She can feel his smirk against her inner thigh. Bastard.

She can’t think of anything else, not when he’s nibbling gently on her clit while he slips two fingers in her, easy. Honestly, she can’t really do much right now except just cling to him wherever she can while his name drops helplessly from her lips amidst whimpers and moans.

(Clarke can’t fault him for being smug; he’s ridiculously good at getting her off until she can’t see straight. She’s not going to tell him that of course.)

Bellamy grunts into her skin when she comes, pulling her closer and lapping it all up, his touch slowing to gentle kitten licks as she floats back down. Absentmindedly she pets his hair, pushing it back from his face.

“Good morning to you too,” he says, smirking as he stands up. He reaches behind her to grab a couple of tissues to wipe his face clean. “That what the doctor prescribed, right?” Clarke glares balefully at him.

“Don’t be a dick,” she sniffs, as haughtily as she could, what with being half naked on his counter and still rosy from before.

“Hey, I'm a dick who just went down on you for like ten minutes to get you off. There’s nothing better than a good orgasm to start the day,” he shrugs, passing over a wad of tissues to her so she can clean up as well.

She pretends to think about it for a moment while she shimmies back into her underwear. “I guess you have a point,” she says, before lightly shoving him against the fridge. He goes willingly, and the shit eating grin from before just widens when she drops to her knees.

“Gonna make my day, Griffin?” he asks, fingers already tangling in her hair. He glances over at the kitchen clock, trying to appear nonchalant, but there’s the telltale clench of his jaw as she pulls his boxers off. His cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach, and she can’t help but lick her lips. “We have eight minutes before breakfast is ready.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.” There’s no way for him to hide his sharp inhale when she takes him in her hand, and Clarke grins like the cat who got the cream. “Just lie back and think of England, right? Or maybe the Library of Alexandria in your case.”

“Yeah,” he says shakily, head falling back when her mouth finally wraps around him, “That really does it for me.”

Breakfast gets burnt, but Bellamy tells her he doesn’t mind, not when he got to eat dessert first.

 

* * *

 

July trails into August, and staying over becomes more commonplace after that, which changes _everything_.

They learn each other in pieces, things that they didn’t know before. She shows him her sketchpad and he leaves her pink with praise, and Bellamy lets her read the little pieces of prose he writes in his spare time. He also tries to teach her how to build things, like the chair, but that just ended up in them trading sloppy kisses and fumbled handjobs. He was inordinately smug afterwards.

“Goddammit Bellamy,” she grumbles under her breath, rubbing the dark bruise pressed beneath her jaw. It only serves to redden it further as the mark already begins to darken.

She’s wearing nothing but a pilfered t shirt that just barely skims the top of her thighs as she examines herself in the mirror of his bathroom. Something which has been happening often, but not often enough for her to actually worry about it. Besides, it’s not like she wants to stop staying the night. Clarke is a big fan of morning sex, something which Bellamy is all too happy to provide.

(And- okay, maybe she likes falling asleep, sweaty and sated, against his chest. Maybe she likes the feel of his arms around her while he buries his face in her hair, likes waking up tangled together and- yeah, this is worrying, but Clarke’s going to ignore it because that’s what she likes to do when she encounters things that she doesn’t want to deal with.)

“Sorry,” his voice filters through the open door, and Clarke can hear the smirk in it. He sounds pretty fucking far from sorry in her opinion.

Straightening her back, she walks back out into the bedroom where he’s still sprawled out on the bed. The blankets are rumpled and falling off the sides, leaving him stark naked in the middle of room. That’s something else she learnt in the few months that they’ve been doing this. If he doesn’t have to leave immediately, Bellamy _loves_ to lounge around post coital.

Combined with the sunlight just barely dripping through the half closed blinds, catching on brown skin flecked with freckles, it is simply Too Much for Clarke and she ends up whirling back around under the pretense of gathering her clothes. She’s not sure if she wants to sketch him or climb his body like a jungle gym.

“I’m already halfway through a new tube of concealer that I bought last month because of you,” she tells him, leaning down to grab her underwear where it lays in a sad little heap under his desk. She doesn’t even want to begin to think about how it got there.

“You know you’re welcome to return the favour anytime, Princess,” he says, still smirking as he crosses his arms behind his neck. It does great things for his biceps and Clarke wouldn’t put it past him to be doing it as some sort of elaborate ploy to get her to stay longer.

“You’re an ass.”

“You like my ass,” he shoots back at her, groaning when she pulls off his t shirt to reveal the bare expanse of her skin. She merely rolls her eyes and secures her bra in place, ignoring his theatrics.

“It’s the only good thing about you, I guess,” she relents and hears him scoff behind her.

“I’m sure I could name a few other things you like about me, I mean, I for one think that at the top of the list should be my d-” the rest of his sentence gets cut off when she throws his shirt at him, hitting him squarely in the face.

“Yes, yes, we’ve been over it before. I’m only with you for your body, blah blah blah,” she says with a roll of her eyes as she struggles to pull her hair back in a ponytail. It’s still in tangles from all the times he ran his fingers through it, tugging and pulling to his heart’s content, and it takes her a few tries before she gets it looking passable. “Where are my jeans?”

He sits up, stretching. “Check the living room,” he says, and follows her without pulling a lick of clothing on. She has to refrain from rolling her eyes as he leans against the doorway, completely nonchalant.

“One day your neighbours are going to report you for indecency,” she comments while wiggling into her jeans.

He just smiles cheekily. “Who says they haven’t?” he pauses and then, “It’s my apartment, I do what I want.”

“Even if it means flashing the innocent,” she nods sagely, “I get it.”

The grin just widens. “I’ll see you around, Griffin,” he waves lazily when she pulls open the front door, pecking her on the cheek. That’s a new thing he does, and she likes it probably a bit too much.

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles, already searching her purse for her keys, and ignores the flutter his smile sends through her.

It becomes harder and harder to leave after sex, dawdling while collecting clothes and making excuses to stay a little longer. No longer does she leave before the sweat cools on their bodies, but she’s there in bed right with him, curled into his side with his arms around him, feeling his voice rumble beneath her ear as she drifts off to sleep.

And sure, she likes the addition of morning sex into their routine, especially likes- and hates- the way he makes sure to corner her in the bathroom whenever she has an early shift and get her off fast and dirty, being a smug asshole for the rest of the day. But she also likes that they start spending almost the same amount of time lying around half naked watching trashy TV and eating take out than they do in bed.

And that might become a problem.

 

* * *

 

 

There are certain things about being a doctor Clarke doesn’t like.

Charity galas are one of them.

Don’t get her wrong, she understands the need for them- hospitals aren’t going to fund themselves- but she hates having to shove her feet in heels and paste a smile on her face while she rubs shoulders with far too many sleazy old men for an entire evening, not when she could be at home marathoning _Stranger Things_ in her sweats.

And to make matters worse, her mother is here, which is a rather… unwelcome surprise.

Clarke loves her mother, really, she does, but she just wishes that she would give her some space. All throughout high school she was there, breathing down her neck to get good grades and enroll in the right hobbies to get into med school. And now that that’s done and she’s been certified, she’s been dropping less and less subtle hints about settling down, starting a family, and, her personal favourite, your biological clock is ticking.

Yeah. That happened.

So she has the absolute pleasure of spending the evening trying to get people who see her as nothing but a pretty face to donate to the radiology ward while her mother tries to show her off as the nearest available warm body.

Honestly, the only way she makes it through the night without shoving the heel of her five inch stiletto through someone’s neck- or her own- is the thought of how Bellamy might ‘cheer her up’ later.

(She already told him she was coming over while she was getting her hair done earlier this morning. Clarke is a classy lady who likes to schedule her hook ups, thank you very much. Besides, he responded with the thumbs up emoji and, ‘ _cool, i’ve never tried to take a fancy dress off with my teeth before_ ’ so it’s nice to know that she’s not the only depraved one in this- thing.)

But then she has to go through at least three more conversations where the person is paying more attention to her chest than what she’s saying, and two more attempts from her mother to get her with rich, successful businessmen. The last straw was when one of them oh so kindly told her that it was only _polite_ for her to give him her number after listening to him blather on about mergers for the last fifteen minutes.

Clarke is ready to strangle him, especially when he insists that she looks ‘like a girl who could use a nice guy in her life.’

Unfortunately, she does not kick Mr Nice Guy in the balls like she wants to, but instead leaves early, though not before smuggling out a bottle of champagne beneath her coat, and takes a cab back to Bellamy’s. She spends the entire forty minute ride fuming, and when it pulls up in front of his apartment building, she pulls her heels off and stomps up the stairs barefoot, diseases be damned.

“I am ready to kill everyone at that dinner and then myself,” she announces, flinging open the door. The bottle of champagne dangles from her hand.

Bellamy barely looks up from his book. “If you are, please don’t involve me in your schemes. America’s justice system does not work in favour of brown people.”

She debates whether or not it would be worth it to throw the champagne at him when he closes his book and looks up at her. “You seem pissed.”

“I spent the night with a bunch of sixty year old dudes staring at my cleavage while my mother- who did not tell me she was coming to a work event mind you- tried to set me up with the next Warren Buffett,” she gripes, “Of course I’m pissed.”

His lips quirk up in a half smile as he looks her up and down. “Well, it is nice cleavage,” he offers, and she can’t help but snort at that, her annoyance subsiding just for a moment.

“Dick,” she says fondly, and he shrugs, unashamed.

“True,” he replies, standing up and stretching. Just a sliver of skin is exposed above the waistband of his sweats and her eyes dart down to it for a brief second. He glances over to the clock on the wall which says that it’s just after midnight. “Come on,” he says, grabbing his car keys.

Clarke frowns. “I thought you had very elaborate plans of how you were going to take my dress off. I was looking forward to that.”

He smirks, and very deliberately cups her jaw, tilting her head up. Her eyes flicker shut in expectation, but the kiss never comes. Instead, his lips hover just out of reach while he presses his forehead to hers, and she can’t stop the dissatisfied whimper from clawing its way out of her throat.

“All in good time,” he says, pulling away. As much as he’d like to pretend otherwise, he’s not totally unaffected; his voice is raspy and his eyes are at least three shades darker. “Now, are you coming or what?”

“That better be a double entendre,” she grumbles, grabbing on to his bicep so she slip back on her shoes, “Otherwise I’m adding you to the list of people I’m ready to skin alive tonight.”

He salutes her mockingly, mouth twisted up in a downright filthy grin. “Aye, aye captain.”

She takes the hand he offers as they walk down the steps, dropping it only to open the car door for her, and then picks it back up after he sits, linking them over the centre console. He ignores her when she asks where they’re going, and Clarke drifts asleep somewhere around the half an hour mark.

When he wakes her, it’s almost 2 a.m. and they’re in an empty carpark just passed Norfolk. The sign outside reads for a twenty four hour ice cream shop and she turns to look at him in shock.

She can’t be certain, but she’s fairly certain he’s blushing. “Come on,” he says, gruffly, and she’s pretty sure he hears her laugh before the door slams shut.

The owner doesn’t say anything when they walk in, Clarke still in her floor length gown and Bellamy in a pair of sweatpants and an old t shirt with a stain at the collar, just takes their order and completes their transaction without a second glance.

“You look nice,” he tells her once they’ve settled back in the car, “I don’t think I told you that as yet.”

The praise makes her bite the inside of her cheek so to stop the overly excited grin from breaking the surface. “Thanks,” she replies, “You look good too. The marinara stain really completes it.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, swiping a bit of his ice cream across her nose. She sputters indignantly and he grins while she tries to rub it off.

“Not that this isn’t fun and all,” she says, struggling to stop the mint chocolate chip from dripping on to her hands, “But why did we drive almost two hours just for ice cream?”

“You’ll see,” is all he says, scooping a giant mouthful of his in his mouth, because he took it in a cup like a wimp.

She stays awake while he drives this time, and it’s only twenty minutes later he’s pulling in on a hidden trail, the car jostling her from side to side. Just as she’s about to ask where they’re going for possibly the millionth time, she hears it, the soft crashing of waves against the shore.

“O and I used to come here on vacation when we were kids,” he says in reply to her unspoken question. He pulls the keys from the ignition and grabs the small towel he keeps in the car. “Let’s go.”

The sand is coarse under her feet, having ditched the heels in the car, and the towel isn’t even big enough for the two of them when he spreads it out. She ends up having to sit in his lap, which she isn’t complaining about, arms looped around his neck.

“This is nice,” she sighs, leaning her head on his shoulder, “Peaceful.”

He presses a kiss to the top her head. “Figured it would help chase away the homicidal thoughts.”

She hum happily in return. “You were right. Although,” she peeks up slyly from underneath her lashes to find him already staring at her, “I know something that could help speed up the process.”

He sighs, but does nothing to hide his grin. “So demanding all the time,” he mutters, pulling her close so that he can kiss her for the first time that night. She grins into it, licking the taste of cherry vanilla out of his mouth while he kneads into her skin.

They make out for a while, trading languid kisses, until his hand drifts to her side, searching for the zipper.

“Nuh uh,” she grabs hold of his hand, stilling it, “You made a promise,” she sing songs, and he grins widely.

“That I did,” he nods, and then he’s replacing his hand with his mouth, dragging down the zipper with his teeth. Her eyes roll back into her head as he makes sure to lave every inch of exposed skin, until she’s a shuddering writhing mess in his lap, all but begging him to hurry up.

His teeth nip at her collarbone while he laughs, and then between the two of them, she’s kicking her dress off fully within the next ten seconds, and it lands a little off the to the side.

She breaks away, panting to glance at it. “There’s sand in my dress now,” she pouts, toeing it hesitantly. Bellamy is trying and failing not to stare at her rose coloured lingerie and she hides a triumphant smile. “That’s going to be a bitch to get out. It’s all your fault.”

His eyes snap back up to hers and he gives her a lopsided smirk while his hands reach out to her hips. “Aww, come here baby, let my tongue say sorry,” he says, pulling her so that she straddles his face.

She sighs when his thumbs hook around her panties, rocking against his chin as he tugs them off. “Well, if you insist,” she says, and her breath hitches at the first swipe of his tongue.

She’s entirely grateful that by doing it this way she doesn’t get sand up her ass and elsewhere, and is more than happy to return the favour, balancing on her knees as she takes him in her mouth, while his hands make a mess of her fancy updo.

They leave the beach sometime around half three, and Clarke falls asleep on the car ride home, in between staring at the lights that bounce of the windscreen, and the panes of Bellamy’s face, harsh and beautiful, her fingers aching to sketch.

He must have carried her up the stairs, because when she wakes up, sunlight is streaming through his bedroom windows and Bellamy is sprawled beside her, mouth agape as he snores.

She smiles into the pillow and nuzzles closer to him, his arm tightening around her waist as she’s lulled back to sleep by the sound of his breathing.

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke ends up getting called in for a shift on her day off, and as a result has to push her lunch with Raven back. She expects it to just be a regular eight hour one, which would already be enough to tire her out after pulling a double yesterday, but then around three, there’s an accident on the freeway and she doesn’t get home until after seven, finding Raven waiting on her couch with take out, having already let herself in.

“Long day at the office honey?” she asks, dry, while Clarke struggles to pull off her scrub top, leaving her in a camisole.

She drops on the couch, hiding her face in her lap as she groans, “I don’t want to move for the next twelve hours.”

Raven pets back her hair. “You’ll have to at least move so I can go home,” she says, “And to maybe take a bath. You and I both know that you won’t be able to rest until you’ve gotten the hospital germs off you.”

She heaves a full bodied sigh. “Why do you always have to be right?” she asks, making grabby hands until she passes a carton of egg rolls over.

Raven just laughs and puts on a new episode of _Cutthroat Kitchen,_ the two of them sitting in silence as it plays out, the only sounds to be heard other than the television was their forks against the containers.

When it’s done, Clarke is almost half asleep on top of her and Raven has to shake her shoulder.

“Yeah, you’re pretty useless tonight,” she laughs, helping her up, “Go take a soak in the tub, light some of those fancy ass candles Lexa left, drink some wine.”

“That sounds nice,” she says wistfully, before being overtaken by a huge yawn, “Although, I might fall asleep in the tub at this rate.”

“I’ll call you every half hour to make sure you haven’t drowned,” Raven promises, and Clarke breathes out a laugh.

She manages to scrounge up the energy to walk her to the front door, promising that they can catch up some other day this week. When she leaves, Clarke spends a few seconds debating whether or not she’s up for taking Raven’s advice and drawing a bath.

It turns out she is, because a mere five minutes later she’s pulling the cork out of a wine bottle with her teeth as she fumbles with a pack of matches. The tub is slowly filling in the background, and she unearthed a bottle of cherry blossom scented bubble bath in the back of her cupboard. Soon enough, she’s stripping out of her clothes and lowering herself in the tub with a sigh.

It’s only a few minutes later she’s scrambling for her phone to text Bellamy because after all her hard work over the past two days she deserves _some_ stress relief.

(And maybe it’s also because she’s gotten used to the semi regular orgasms. Those are definitely a perk. She’s becoming spoilt.)

It’s only half eight, so he should definitely still be up, possibly yelling at the television or maybe making a fucking coffee table from scratch this time. She spends a few moments fretting over the empty message box before finally muttering, “Fuck it,” and sending- what she hopes to be- a sexy selfie of her barely covered by bubbles with the caption: _come over?_

He replies almost immediately; _be there in 10_.

It sends a current of warmth through her body, starting in the pit of her stomach and flowing throughout the rest of her. She inhales deeply and settles back against the tub, taking a healthy sip of wine.

True to his word, not ten minutes later he’s there, knocking on her door.

“It’s open,” she calls, refusing to pull herself out to get it. There’s the telltale creak of the hinges and she hears it click closed, the soft jangle of the chain lock being slot into place drifting through the apartment.

“Hey,” he says, when he walks into the bathroom, barefoot having already slipped his shoes off. His skin looks flushed, and his hair is in complete disarray, a tangle of windswept curls. It makes her bite her lips.

“Hey,” she replies after a beat, looking him up and down. His eyes are dark, trained on her as though awaiting instructions and she has to bite back a smile. “You coming in or what?”

He flashes her a boyish grin, and begins pulling off his clothes while she stares unabashedly at him. She feels the coil in her tummy tighten as each article of clothing comes off, exposing miles of tanned skin.

She scoots forward so that he can get in behind her, but before she can fix herself back, he’s curling his hand around her neck and kissing her deep and dirty, his other hand drifting to her breast and squeezing it languidly.

“Hi,” he says again once they’ve parted, his head dropping to her shoulder while his hand brushes a path down her belly to her hip, pulling her to settle between his legs.

A goofy grin spreads across her face and she tangles her fingers in the hair at the nape of neck, scritching lightly at his scalp. “Hi.”

“Long day?” he asks sympathetically, lips barely brushing against her skin and causing her to shiver.

“The worst,” she sighs, before shifting. She can feel his dick, still soft against her ass and she grinds against. “It’s looking up though,” she says, sly, and Bellamy’s laugh stirs her fine baby hair into tickling her.

They fool around in the bath for a while- he’s all wandering hands and mouth, continuously kissing and licking his way across her shoulders until she’s sagging against him. She’s no slacker either, grinding against him ever so often until he’s hard, and tracing her fingers over his thighs in a maddening pattern, but Bellamy is insistent that tonight be all about her, getting her off twice with his fingers before she even has the chance to grasp him.

Eventually, it all culminates to her turning around and riding him lazily, almost sloppily, not even kissing, just breathing in each other’s air, eyes closed. His thumb bears down on her clit, rubbing it in teasing circles and when she comes, her orgasm washes over her like a wave, slow and soft and catching both of them by surprise, leaving her slumped boneless against him. He swears, hips jerking up and causing water to slosh out of the tub, and she clenches down on him once more, spurring him towards his on release.

“Better?” he asks, nosing against her damp hair. Clarke just sighs, burrowing deeper into his neck. His entire body vibrates with a chuckle, and she feels the barest brush of his lips on the crown of her head. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

She squeals when he scoops her up, both of them dripping water all over the floor as he carries her to the bed. She bounces a bit when he deposits her on it, crawling up her body to sneak a quick kiss.

“Now my bed is all wet,” she mumbles against his lips, hands curling into his hair.

“It’s not the first time that’s happened while I’ve been over, now is it?” he replies, and his voice is smug enough that she pinches him.

“Ass,” she huffs, and he laughs lowly into her skin.

“Get dressed,” he tells her, tucking her hair behind her ear, “I’ll go see about the bathroom.”

“No, no,” she says, scrambling to sit up. “Leave it, I’ll do it in the morning.”

He gives her an unimpressed look. “It’s a disaster waiting to happen in there, Clarke.”

“Yeah but,” she ducks her head so he can’t see her blush, “You shouldn’t have to.”

He sighs, dropping his head against her chest, nipping at her collarbone. “Let me at least put out the candles then.”

“Fine.”

He pecks the corner of her mouth before pulling himself off of her, and Clarke pushes herself up on her forearms to stare unashamedly at his ass as he walks away. He returns a few moments later, clothes in hand, and she steals his t shirt while he’s pulling on his boxers.

“Guess that’s my cue to stay, huh?” and her blush deepens.

“Shut up,” she mutters petulantly, burrowing into her duvet so that he can no longer see her. Bellamy’s short bark of laughter echoes through the room, and the bed dips as he climbs in. Immediately, she turns, pressing herself to his side, hooking a leg over his hips and resting her fist on his chest.

“G’night, Bellamy,” she mumbles, already drifting off, and just barely feels the brush of his lips against her knuckles.

“Night, Clarke.”

It’s a testament to how tired she is that she manages to sleep through the night without waking up once, and the only thing that actually does wake her up is the sound of a cupboard door slamming shut, followed by someone swearing lowly and proficiently.

She takes a minute to bite back a smile, stretching and revelling in the feel of her sheets against her bare skin, before throwing her legs over the edge and padding over to the kitchen, taking a quick detour to the bathroom.

Bellamy is still undressed, wearing nothing but his boxers as he tries to find edible food in her cupboards.

“Morning,” he says once he sees her standing there. He’s riffling through the fridge which is almost embarrassingly spartan. “When was the last time you went grocery shopping? How do you survive?”

She shrugs. “Take out.”

“You’re an actual disaster,” he declares, letting the fridge door fall shut, and she giggles.

“Pot, kettle, you’re black,” she says, and he snorts.

“Cute,” he says. And then, “Really, come on Clarke, you don’t even own a vegetable. I think you win at the worst adult imaginable.”

“I’m a doctor. I’m allowed to fail those things.”

“Right.” He pulls out the half empty carton of eggs and milk from the fridge. “You want pancakes?” he asks, digging around her cabinets. “It’s the only viable option we’ve got considering you don’t believe in things like ‘a balanced breakfast’ and ‘caloric intake.’”

“So you’ve told me. At least twelve times this month.”

“And yet you never listen,” he sighs.

It’s things like that that should be a slight bit worrying- just how often he’s staying over so that they’re able to have this conversation multiple times- but right now she is far too distracted by the flex of his back muscles as he leans down to get the pan.

When he straightens up, he’s smirking at her as he says oh so innocently, “Next time I’m going to the farmer’s market, I’ll drag you along with me.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, feeling her cheeks warm. “You’re never gonna let me live that one down, are you?”

“Never,” he says, turning back around. “So, pancakes?”

“Sure,” she says flippantly before crossing the room. She jumps up on the counter next to him and smirks. “Kinda want something else now though,” she says, giving him a blatant once over.

Bellamy grins, emptying his hands on the counter so he can firmly cup the back of her head, his mouth hot and hungry and demanding against hers, groaning when she swipes her tongue across his lips.

A sharp knock against the door startles them, causing their heads to bumps together and he growls against her mouth.

She pulls back, offering him a sympathetic smile before striding over to the door, ready to give whoever it is on the other side a good piece of her mind for having the nerve to come calling so early in the morning.

However, every single argument dies on her lips when she sees that it’s Roan, and she immediately flushes red because she wrenched the door wide open in her haste.

Wide enough for him to see everything, from her wearing nothing but Bellamy’s t shirt, to the man in question leaning against the kitchen counter with sex mussed hair, looking equally as sheepish.

“Um,” she starts, trying to figure out how on earth she can spin this.

Roan for his part- aside from throwing her a knowing look- just says, “Raven left her purse here last night. I texted you saying that I was coming to get it, but now I see that you were otherwise occupied.”

She didn’t think it was possible for her to get any redder and _yet_.

“Right,” she nods, struggling to keep her voice normal, “It’s right here, let me just go get it.”

The two minutes it takes for her to find the purse in the living room are quite possibly the most awkward two minutes of her life. She keeps on pulling down the hem of the shirt out of fear of accidentally giving him a show. Not wearing underwear when she slipped out of the bedroom seemed like a good idea at the time but now she feels like it’s the most stupid thing she’s done all year.

Thankfully Roan doesn’t comment when she hands over the silver clutch, just looks between her and Bellamy once more. “Thanks. See you around Clarke, Bellamy,” he nods, and then he’s on his way, the door clicking shut behind him.

Neither of them move, still standing frozen until he breaks the silence.

“So,” says Bellamy, voice weak, “Pancakes?”

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Raven was introduced to the group- officially, and as Clarke’s friend, not the girl who used Bellamy as a rebound- it was bar night. She was exposed to everything in full force, from Jasper’s hyperactiveness to Miller’s sarcastic remarks, and even a token Clarke and Bellamy Fight.

(She thinks that they were arguing over the virtues of crunchy versus smooth peanut butter. It was ridiculous.)

Afterwards, she pulled Clarke aside under the pretense of dragging her to the bathroom.

“I think now would be a good time to tell you that I slept with him,” she says with no beating around the bush.

Clarke just blinks. “With Bellamy?” she asks, and the other girl nods, “Okay…?”

“Look, I just don’t want to make it weird- or, weirder I should say- between us,” Raven says, just a hint of awkwardness colouring her tone.

It takes Clarke a good few moments to catch on, and when she does, her eyes widen and she snorts in a decidedly unladylike manner. “Me and Bellamy? Oh god no, Raven, we’ll end up killing each other.”

The other girl eyes her, the beginnings of a smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth. “I’m just saying, you don’t argue with someone like that unless you either hate them or really, really, like them.”

“It’s definitely the former,” Clarke says dryly and she laughs.

“Whatever you say, Griffin,” she says with a small, smug smile that leaves her feeling a bit uneasy.

The conversation is never mentioned again, but that doesn’t stop Raven from throwing her knowing looks whenever she and Bellamy are borderline civil to one another.

And now Roan has caught them- while not in the act, still in a very compromising position- so she knows it’s going to make it’s way back to her before the day is up. If there’s one person smugger than Raven about what happens between them, it’s Roan, though he doesn’t show it.

(He shares her sentiments that there are only two types of people who act like they do. No wonder they’re dating.)

Bellamy left almost as soon as the world’s most awkward breakfast was over, so she’s ready when Raven bursts into her apartment after work, having gone out and bought Kahlua and chocolate biscuits to try and at least stave off some of the judgement.

It’s a fruitless attempt however, because as soon as that door slams shut, Raven’s on her like a shark that’s sensed blood.

“How long?” she demands, not even shrugging off her jacket as she flings herself on the couch.

Clarke sighs. “Three months, give or a take,” she replies, and there’s just a bit of an edge to her words. Three months since they started sleeping together regularly, longer if you count when she realised that she wanted to keep sleeping with him.

Her eyebrows raise imperceptibly. “Huh. Didn’t expect you to be able to hide it that long,” she says, “I pegged Blake as the type that wouldn’t be able to shut up about it actually.”

“We’re not dating, Raven.”

She freezes in place for so long that Clarke genuinely begins to get worried, and then, without warning, she smacks her hard on the arm.

“Why the fuck not?” she all but yells, ignoring Clarke’s shriek of pain.

“Because we don’t want to?” she replies warily, rubbing her arm and frowning. “It’s just sex.”

She snorts and looks at her so pityingly that she feels her hackles raise. “It could never be ‘just sex’ between you two.”

“Well it is,” she sniffs haughtily, “I know you all are under some sort of warped delusion that we’re just hiding our uncontrollable lust with shouting matches, but you’re wrong okay? I don’t like Bellamy like that, and neither does he.”

“Right. Sure, of course.” She shakes her head, laughing incredulously. “Bellamy’s been in love with you for years. You’re just the last one to know this.”

Suddenly, she’s thankful that they never got around to drinking because she would have spewed it everywhere. Her heart feels like it stutters over several beats before resuming double time.

“You’re wrong,” she says, and her voice sounds weak even to her own ears, and Raven notices.

“Am I really?” she says. “Roan said he was here this morning. That meant he spent the night. If it was just sex, he wouldn’t have stayed. How many times have you all spent the entire night together?”

Clarke stays silents, the unease growing in her stomach. He stays over most nights, or she does, having breakfast together while yawning over cups of coffee.

Raven continues to go on, a frenzied glint in her eyes. “And how many times is it actually ‘just sex’ anyway? You’re telling me that you don’t talk about your days with each other? That you don’t hang out after?”

She knows about all his lessons plans, and he lets her rant about patients after a hard day’s work. And more than once they’ve fallen asleep on the couch together, without even hooking up before, not even counting all the times they just order in while watching a movie.

Raven looks at her, straight in the eye as she asks in a no nonsense sort of voice, “Do you like him?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, drawing her knees up to her chest. _Does_ she like him? As a friend, definitely. Their late night conversations have brought them closer and he’s probably one of the few people she feels comfortable talking about anything. But does she _like_ him?

When this started all those months ago, she would have said no in full certainty.

Now?

Now she’s not so sure.

“I don’t know,” she replies, voice smaller than she’s ever heard. Her eyes are still shut and she leans into Raven’s touch when she puts her hand on her shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze.

“Well, figure it out,” she says, soft, “Because it’s not fair to the both of you.”

She nods against her knees, still not daring to look up, and hears Raven grumble under her breath before enveloping her in a tight hug.

They put the TV on while Raven makes them some sandwiches using the pack of frozen deli meat she unearths in the back of the freezer, which they eat sitting cross legged on the couch.

She doesn’t stay long, which is a good thing. Clarke’s mind is scattered, running a mile a minute as she tries to analyse every single interaction she’s ever had with Bellamy. Maybe Raven is wrong. She could be wrong. There could be nothing there.

But at the same time-

At the same time she thinks about how she thinks about that time she spent almost an entire weekend straight at his apartment, waking up next to him, having burnt coffee together on the fire escape, wearing nothing but his t shirt while his hair still sticks up on one side, only leaving for a night shift at the hospital.

They showered together- actually showered without any fooling around. She offered to scrub his back, fingers dancing up his sides in a way she knows is ticklish and when that’s over he repaid the favour by washing her hair, fingers massaging her scalp while she leans back against his chest. And yeah, one of his hands might have strayed down to play with her breasts eventually, but they go no lower than her waist while they do nothing but make out under the stream of water until it starts to get cold.

Even after, while she’s patting her hair dry with a towel- he made space for her toiletries in the cupboard under the sink, actually went out and bought a tube of toothpaste for her because she has sensitive teeth- he let her curl into him on the couch and listened to her while she goes on about her favourite television shows, looking down at her with that little contented smile, as if seeing Clarke in mismatched socks and oversized t shirts is the best thing he’s ever seen.

Her breath catches, and she almost breaks her mug with how tight she’s gripping it.

It’s been staring her in the face all this time, hasn’t it, been in every little action he does when around her.

She thinks about last night, how he held her like she was something precious while she tucked in to him. She thinks about cheek kisses and 2 a.m. drives down to the coast and Clarke has been so blind.

Honestly, she wants to sing and cry and throw up in the dirt all at the same time.

There’s an ache in her chest, one that’s been growing unattended for the longest of whiles, and now, when she finally pays it attention, it bowls her over, leaving her in a puddle of feelings that she doesn’t know what to do with.

So she calls Bellamy, wanting to put everything to rights as soon as possible.

He doesn’t pick up.

The first few times, she let’s it slide. School is opening in a week’s time and she remembers how  he was telling about his elaborate plans for his classes, at night when they were curled around each other, still stuck in that post sex haze. He’s probably busy.

But then he doesn’t respond to any of her texts or calls, and she misses the next time they all get together because of work, and Clarke can feel the anxiety gnawing at her from the inside out.

Eventually she decides to pull a page out of the rom-coms she’s been stress watching this week, and show up at his apartment, unannounced.

He gets the door after the second knock, not quite able to hide the flash of surprise that crosses his face.

“We need to talk,” she says before he can even open his mouth, nervously wringing her hands together.

He breathes out, slow. “Alright,” he says, letting her in.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she says, trying not to sound as though she’s pointing fingers, but, well. She’s hurt. It’s the first time she had to go a week without any kind of contact from him since they started this thing, and it _hurts_ more than she could have ever imagined.

He shifts guiltily, unable to meet her eyes. “I’ve been busy.”

She snorts at that. “And you couldn’t even text?” There’s no point masking her feelings now. Clarke’s laying all her cards out on the table for him to see, it’s just up to him to decide if he wants it.

“What do you want me to say, Clarke?” he asks with a bit of an edge to his voice.

“I _want_ an explanation.”

His jaw clenches and he looks away from her for a moment. Finally, he says, “Raven told me that she talked to you. About us.”

Confusion begins to seep into her mind and her brows dip. “Okay? And?” When he doesn’t say anything she presses further, desperate to let him know. “I know we said- when we started this whole thing we said that it was just sex. And it was.”

He flinches like he’s been hit, and she’s quick to continue. “...But then it wasn’t anymore. Somewhere along the line it stopped being just sex, when we started staying over and driving out. When you kept fucking crunchy peanut in your cupboard because you remembered that I like it,” her breath is coming in fast now, and her fists are clenched at her sides while he stares at her, mouth agape.

“So if you could, I don’t know, just stop being a dramatic dick for a moment and _just talk to me,_ that would be grand,” she surmises, and it startles a laugh out of him. She sniffs a little, trying to catch his eye when she says, “Because this isn’t just sex anymore. Not for me.”

Bellamy opens and closes his mouth several times before finally settling on, “You- _fuck_ ,” and all but tackling her, slanting his mouth over hers as he pulls her close.

Clarke makes a noise of surprise when he does it, but her hands immediately go to his hair and coaxes her mouth open with his tongue, licking into her. She thought that she would know his kiss by now, but this is something else entirely. This is slow and sweet and- _loving_. It makes her teeth hurt, and she grins into the kiss.

When he pulls away, he doesn’t go far, pressing their foreheads together and breathing heavily, eyes bright as he stares at her in awe.

Clarke breaks the moment by punching him in the arm.

“Ow!” he yells, shocked, “What was that for?”

“You couldn’t just tell me you liked me?” she asks, unimpressed, “Did you really have to fucking disappear and leave me to show up at your door with a confession like some sort of period romance?”

“I was working through some things!” he says defensively, and Clarke snorts.

“I can’t believe I fell for you,” she sighs, and he grins wide, ridiculous happily. She’s sort of worried that it might crack his face in two. “You suck.”

The grin twists into a smirk, and he lets his hands drifting down to her ass, pulling her hips flush to his. “Oh, I can do much more than suck,” he says lecherously, and she rolls her eyes, even as he begins to pressing sucking kisses into her neck. “I can show you if you want,” he mumbles into her shoulder.

Her fingers thread through his hair, pulling him up so that she can kiss him softly. “When have I ever said no to that?” she says, nosing his cheek, and he lifts her in one move, legs crossing behind his back.

It’s like the kiss before, familiar but entirely different at the same time. He grinds into her, slow and deep, setting a rhythm that has them both sweat soaked and shaking in no time flat. One of her hands tangle in his hair, keeping his mouth pressed to hers, while the other slides across his shoulders and back, feet linked around his hips to urge him on.

He pulls back when she’s close, dropping a hand to thumb at her clit once, twice, and then she’s gone, the image of his intense stare branded into the back of her eyelids and lets go. He follows soon after, when she cradles his face and tells him how much she wants him, how much she wants _this_ , and then slumps against her, boneless and sated and pressing wet, slobbery kisses wherever he can reach as they both catch their breaths.

Later, when they’re lying side by side. He brushes back her hair from her face and says, “You may have already known this, but um, I’m kind of in love with you.”

She smiles at him, twisting so that she can press a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “It’s always nice to hear,” she says, before biting her lip, eyebrows furrowing.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he rushes to tell her, using his thumb to smooth over her forehead, “I just want you to know, but there’s no rush on your part.”

She feels it again, that pain in her chest, and she smiles, linking their hands together and brushing a kiss over his knuckles. “I know, but I think,” she hesitates for a moment, the words stuck to the roof of her mouth. She takes a deep, shaky breath. “I think I’ll be able to say it back eventually, just,” her eyes squeeze shut and her voice comes out tiny, “Just give me some time?”

Bellamy hooks his arm around her waist, drawing her into his chest. He nuzzles her temple. “Of course, whatever you need,” he sighs, kissing the crown of her head, and Clarke grins burrowing closer to him.

She squeezes their linked hands. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t need to see him to know that there’s that small, contented smile gracing his lips. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says, squeezing back their hands in return.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://hiddenpolkadots.tumblr.com/) if you ever want to yell about these nerds


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